


two slow dancers

by johnllauren



Series: hetalia rarepair week 2020 [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dancing, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Music, Nostalgia, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24815893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnllauren/pseuds/johnllauren
Summary: “Do you remember it all?” Austria asks. He is looking out at the ballroom, but the look in his eyes suggests he isn’t just seeing an empty room.“Of course I do.” And perhaps Spain is seeing something else, too.A pause while they are lost in their own memories, and then, “Do you think we could have made it?” Austria asks. “If things were different, or something.”“I don’t know,” Spain replies.
Relationships: Austria/Spain (Hetalia)
Series: hetalia rarepair week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786603
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	two slow dancers

**Author's Note:**

> title and inspiration from mitski's "two slow dancers"  
> for day 6 of rarepair week, prompt music
> 
> “it would be a hundred times easier / if we were young again / but as it is / and it is / we're just two slow dancers, last ones out” - Mitski, "Two Slow Dancers"

Their footsteps, loud against the tile floor, echo around the otherwise empty room. 

“I haven’t been here since that last ball,” Austria says, looking around at the walls that haven’t changed in hundreds of years. 

“Neither have I,” Spain admits. Austria looks at him in disbelief and he shrugs. “It didn’t feel right to be in here without you.” 

Austria doesn’t respond. 

They walk to one of the benches against the wall and sit down, and it brings back memories of taking breaks from dancing or socializing in favor of just sitting and _being_ together, Austria laying his head on Spain’s shoulder while Spain ran a hand through his hair, clinking wine glasses together and attempting to down them faster than the other. 

When they sit there now, they are further apart than they used to be, in both respects, but Spain figures that is to be expected. 

“Do you remember it all?” Austria asks. He is looking out at the ballroom, but the look in his eyes suggests he isn’t just seeing an empty room.

“Of course I do.” And perhaps Spain is seeing something else, too. 

A pause while they are lost in their own memories, and then, “Do you think we could have made it?” Austria asks. “If things were different, or something.” 

“I don’t know,” Spain replies. 

The Habsburgs had an eye for beauty, Spain can’t deny them that. Even now, when the room is devoid of purpose, no longer home to those gorgeous dances it was designed for, it is beautiful. He’s reminded of what the dance floor looked like when it was crowded, full of people in very fancy dress, himself and Austria included. Remembers walking around with Austria on his arm, both of them all smiles while they made small talk with various nobles, only to spend the night sitting up in bed making fun of every single one of them. Remembers the look in Austria’s eyes when Spain would spin him in the middle of a dance before pulling him close once more. 

“I don’t think we really had a choice about it either way.” He continues. 

Austria nods. 

They didn’t marry for love. They tried to turn it into love and succeeded for a time. But their marriage began as an assignment. Spain was told he would marry Austria and that was it. They had known each other before, of course, but had their first real conversation on the night of their wedding. And then they were married, and living together, operating as a unit. 

They slept in the same bed every night for almost two hundred years and then one day they didn’t. 

“We were young,” Austria says. It’s true. “And it was political. We were still being treated like pawns and we didn’t know it, we thought we were humans, or at least people with choices. We weren’t comfortable with the life we were expected to have.” 

They weren’t _children_ when they married, but they didn’t have the experience they do now, they hadn’t come face-to-face with the horrors of war or stared guns down the barrel the way they have now. When they danced on the balcony, Austria’s eyes were alight with naivety and his smile was brighter than the moon. 

They lapse into silence again. After all these years, sitting in silence with Austria is still comfortable, which surprises him. Perhaps they spent so much time together that even now their bodies remember that they can be comfortable around each other. 

And then Austria stands. He offers his hand to Spain in a gesture that is unmistakable, and Spain takes it in his own, brings it to his lips and kisses Austria’s knuckles gently, before standing. If Austria blushes at the kiss, Spain doesn’t mention it. 

It’s practically muscle memory at this point, the way they are able to hold each other close, fitting together like puzzle pieces. The dance moves are ingrained in both of their minds, and then they are dancing, just like they used to. The added benefit of being alone means they can remain close to each other in a way that might have been perceived as shameful, and Austria leans his head on Spain’s shoulder as they twirl around the room, showing off even without an audience. 

“You’re still good at this,” Spain murmurs to him, his lips against Austria’s head. 

Austria laughs, a rare sound that Spain has treasured since 1520. “It’s like riding a bike.” 

There is no music, just the sound of their shoes against the floor, rhythmic, synchronized. 

Austria shifts so he can look at Spain. “Can I tell you something stupid?” He asks. 

“Of course.” Spain is smiling. 

They haven’t had a conversation this easy in hundreds of years, and the feeling in Spain’s chest is really quite unwelcome. 

“The younger nations - the very young ones - make me so _jealous._ ” His voice is quiet, his inner thoughts a present for Spain only. 

“Why?” 

“They get to fall in love,” Austria says, so honest it’s painful. “I - I watch America and that boyfriend of his, and they’re so happy. They don’t have to conform to the politics we did, the marriage contracts, the wars _all the time._ ” 

Spain nods. “Can I tell you something stupid?” 

“Yes.” 

“I feel the same way.” 

“I’m sorry we parted on such bad terms.” Austria says, looking Spain in the eyes. 

Spain still remembers it, how it felt. Holding the blade to Austria’s throat while Austria screamed at him, unrelenting, “ _Do it! Do it you fucking bastard, you fucking won’t,_ ” the movements of his throat meaning the knife kept cutting into it ever so slightly. Spain’s own vision had been almost entirely obstructed by his own tears and he was shaking. Austria was right, he wouldn’t have been able to do it, but he was alone. They stayed there, like that, until Prussia shoved Spain out of the way to deal with Austria himself, which was for the better anyway. Prussia was always good at the war part of being a country.

It’s the kind of memory that keeps you up at night.

“Me too,” Spain says. His voice is thick, but Austria doesn’t comment on it. 

Austria falters, and Spain fumbles, and they separate. “It’s hard without music,” Austria says, an excuse. 

“I can put music on,” Spain says, reaching into the pocket of his dress pants to pull out his phone. 

When he presses play, realization dawns on Austria almost immediately. “Our favorite song.” His voice is soft, reverent. 

Spain shrugs, tries to be nonchalant. “For old times’ sake.” Baroque music has always had a special place in his heart, though perhaps it was more about the memories than the music. 

Austria was always good-looking. But there would be times, at balls, when he would be truly, earth-shatteringly beautiful. He’s always been the kind of person to shine in formal wear, and the fashions of the time fit him like a glove. He was radiant on the dance floor, in his element as Spain spun him around, draping off Spain’s arm like he was made for this. 

He was beautiful other times, too, when he would laugh at Spain’s jokes over breakfast, or the way he looked during their late night conversations before bed, but those memories hurt too much to probe through. 

Austria nods. “One more dance, then?” 

“One more.” 

They are holding each other close again, Spain’s arm around Austria’s waist, steadying him, pulling him in. Austria’s holding onto him as well, and his hands on Spain feels right, feels safe, feels like the past. It is too easy to lose himself in it. 

Too easy to pretend they’re still married, at another ball in ostentatious outfits that demand everyone’s attention. Austria leans closer to his ear to whisper some snide remark about a duchess he doesn’t like, and Spain can’t help but laugh softly for only Austria to hear. Dancing is second nature, the way their feet move is natural, and they are simply having a conversation with their bodies. Austria is smirking at him over something trivial, and Spain is smiling without even thinking about it. 

Austria looks at him in a way that says “I’m tired,” and Spain nods. Their bed awaits them in a home not far away, and they’ll be able to get out of the scratchy formal wear in favor of pajamas. They’ll complain to each other and make jokes about the night until they’re both laughing so loud they’re afraid of waking up the rest of the palace, and when they get too tired they’ll fall asleep in each other’s arms. 

The music crescendos, and Spain twirls him, and then reality comes crashing down on him. 

They’re in an empty, unlit room in the middle of the day. Sunlight streams in through the windows but all it does is illuminate the dust that’s piled up in the unused room, highlighting how alone the two of them are. Austria and Spain are standing in the middle of the room, still in their work clothes, on their lunch break during a day full of meetings. They are different in more ways than one, weathered and jaded. The circles under their eyes are far darker, the lines on their faces from centuries of worry more pronounced, even if they’re immortal. 

They aren’t married. They haven’t been married for a long time. 

The music slows, not quite finishing, and they sway against each other until it stops. When the music stops, they stay there, afraid to pull away. To go back to normal. 

“I loved you, you know.” Austria says, looking at Spain with eyes that are too honest, too piercing. 

“I loved you too.” 

They separate. Austria doesn’t reach for Spain’s hand again, and they walk out of the room like none of it happened. 

Spain sits at his chair for the remainder of the meeting, pretending he’s doing something on his phone so nobody catches onto how distracted he is. In the corner of his eye, he can see Austria, can see the way Austria keeps _looking_ at him like he doesn’t think Spain will notice. But Austria’s expression is unreadable.

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr: lafayettesass  
> comments are Always appreciated ily


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